


Roughing the Passer

by impossiblepluto



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Teenage Nick Stokes, mild references to s02e03: Overload
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23867725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: A look into Nick's brief high school football career.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	Roughing the Passer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deltajackdalton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltajackdalton/gifts).



> Darling Delta! This idea was brilliant! Thank you for letting me write it. I hope I did it justice!
> 
> Also thanks to panchostokes, 12percentplan and Kailene for additional idea bouncing and dialogue help. Honestly, the best stuff in this story comes from these four.
> 
> Also, I swear that Nick's father's name is William so that's what I went with.

* * *

Nick pulls out his mouth guard as he pops the cap of his water bottle, squirting the no longer cold liquid between the bars of his facemask. He gulps down mouthfuls before squeezing a blast against his face and letting it drip down his neck.

The Texas sun beating down on his skin. It is so hot. 

“Be! Aggressive! Be. Be. Aggressive,” the cheerleaders chant from their practice formation on the sidelines. Nick grins. He always enjoys when football practice coincides with cheer practice, watching the girls shake their poms. Kim and Mary wave when they notice him watching and collapse into a fit of giggles. 

Nick feels his face growing warm in a way that has nothing to do with the afternoon sun. 

“Rameriz, Stokes, hustle up or you’re gonna be running laps,” Coach yells. 

“You trying to get me in trouble?” Carlos teases.

“Sorry, Riz,” Nick laughs and puts on a burst of speed, taking his place in the line up as his best friend Carlos Rameriz jumps into his position near the end of the line. 

He digs his cleats into the soft turf, adjusting his stance, getting ready to explode into action, and calls out the play. A hike and a snap, and the slap of pigskin against his hands as his teammates are off and running. 

He feigns left, tucking the ball under his shoulder and dodges right. Ducking past outstretched arms that try to stop him, running up the field through the break in the line. 

Nick scans the field, looking for an opening. Riz is supposed to be open by now, ready to receive the ball and take it into the end zone. His guys can’t hold the line forever. He’s got to get rid of it but there’s no opening. He cradles the ball closer to his chest as he sees a flash of the green pennant from the opposing team when he’s struck. 

Hard. 

The air driven from his chest with an _oof_ and his feet leave the field, a clod of dirt caught in his cleat thrown in the air. 

It feels like he hovers for a moment, parallel to the ground before his body gives in to gravity and slams against it.

His head bounces inside his helmet and his chest feels like it crumples with the force. The blue sky spins above him as he tries to remember how to breathe. His mouth opens but air refuses to pass into his lungs. Lungs spasming uselessly, forgetting how to do their only job. His head throbs and his ears ring.

No. 

That’s a whistle. 

“Stokes!”

Nick gasps. Oxygen filling his chest. He coughs as his lungs stretch and protest. 

“Stokes,” Coach shouts again.

Nick rolls to sit up, arm slung against his chest, bracing his ribs. His ears are ringing. It wasn’t just the whistle and his head is pounding. 

“I’m okay,” he holds up a hand. 

Coach takes a knee next to him and reaches under his helmet, releasing the chin strap. Dark, shaggy hair falls free, sweat drips down his forehead and the back of his neck. He squints. Shadows pass over him as his teammates gather around in a protective huddle. 

“Really coach I’m fine,” Nick pushes up from the ground and aborts the action with a groan. 

“Okay, let’s get him into the locker room,” Coach orders.

Riz gives him a hand and Nick groans as the action sends a shooting pain through his ribs. He pauses, catching his breath before limping off the field. The school and locker room never seemed farther away. 

His stomach rolls and the bright sunlight feels like daggers to his eyes. He keeps an arm close to his chest, bracing his ribs as they walk. 

“The rest of you, I want you running a passing drill until I get back,” Coach yells instructions before helping Nick and Carlos through the dimly lit tunnel and into the locker room. 

“You took a pretty good jolt there, Stokes,” Coach says, swinging a leg over the bench and sitting down next to Nick. “Is that arm hurting?” 

“No,” Nick answers quickly and looks up at the coach. He grimaces and gives into the stern look that warns him against lying. “It’s my rib, but they’re okay.”

“Alright, let me see,” Coach pushes aside the jersey to reveal the bruise darkening on the side of Nick’s chest. Nick nearly levitates when Coach lightly prods them. 

“I think we better call your parents and have them take you to get checked out.”

“No, Coach, I’m fine, you don’t need to call them,” Nick starts pushing from the bench before he gasps. 

“School policy, son. You were down for a minute.”

“Stunned. I didn’t pass out,” Nick protests.

“Lawyers’ kids,” Coach mutters, shaking his head. “Sorry, Stokes. I can’t let you play until you’re seen by a doctor and have your parents’ approval to come back.”

“Oh man,” Nick groans, putting his head in his hand.

“See, it’s hurting, isn’t it?”

Nick shakes his head. “No. I’m just worried what my mother is going to say. Could you… could you call my dad?”

Coach chuckles and pats his shoulder. It’s the gentlest Nick has ever seen the man. “Sure, champ. You keep some ice on those ribs. Riz, help him out of those pads,” he instructs as he heads for his office to make the phone call.

Rameriz steps up, helping Nick pull his uniform over his head.

“How mad is your mom gonna be?” 

Nick groans. It’s only half from pain. “It took me and Cisco all summer to convince her to let me even try out.”

Riz winces, remembering the discussions he tried not to get sucked into while visiting the Stokes’ house. “But your brothers both played.”

“They were also both almost six feet tall in high school and I’m… not,” Nick looks down at his slender frame with a small shrug, wincing as the motion pulls on his ribs. He’s wiry. Fast. He’s made it through three games this season and barely been tackled. “I think she thought I wouldn’t make the cut.”

“I heard a rumor that you’re already being scouted,” Riz loosens the straps on the shoulder pads.

“It’s been three games and I’m only a junior.”

“You remember Jeremiah King, they say scouts were looking at him as a freshman.” 

“He was fourteen and over six feet tall.”

Riz shrugs, unlacing the shoulder pads and easing them out of the way. “You think they’ll let you keep playing?”

Nick’s brow furrows and his eyes crinkle. “Cisco was pretty proud when I made the team. He might let me.” 

Cisco beamed when Nick made the team. Often unsure of what his father was thinking, there was no doubt that the man was proud of another Stokes son carrying on the family football tradition. He’s not a tactile man, or one who speaks about his emotions easily, but he patted Nick on the back and declared “that’s my boy,” after Nick’s debut in the starting lineup. 

It felt good, to hear those words aloud. The warmth of his father’s hand on his shoulder. The intangible smile aimed in his direction. 

“Heads up,” Riz breaks Nick’s reverie and tosses him an ice pack from the supply in the freezer on the other side of the locker room. 

Nick hisses as he presses it to the widening, darkening bruise. He leans back, resting against the lockers to wait. Hoping that his dad didn’t immediately call his mom to let her know what happened. Worrying about potentially calling the honorable Judge Stokes away from something important. His eyebrows wiggle, trying to remember if he overheard that there was something important on the docket this week. While Nick was growing up both his parents were careful to never discuss their cases at home. Or at least in any way that would worry them or break client confidentiality. 

He can remember one occasion the contents of a case being used in a hypothetical debate that ended with his sister Casey confessing to something he hadn’t quite understood or really cared about at the time, as he made a lake of gravy in his mashed potatoes. It must have been something important because both parents were distracted enough that he didn’t get scolded for playing with his food instead of eating it. Or hiding his peas in his napkin. 

The Stokes children never succeeded in putting anything over on their parents, but that didn’t mean that they didn’t attempt it. 

There’s a scuffling sound of dress shoes on tile and the locker room door opens. 

“Pancho?” 

Nick scrambles, sitting up straighter, trying not to look miserable. “Over here.”

William Stokes peers around the lockers searching for his youngest, hurrying over and squatting next to Nick. “You alright?”

“I told Coach he didn’t have to call you.”

“Your safety is part of his job.”

"I’m fine.”

Cisco slowly reaches towards Nick’s face, to the split lip and bruise on his cheek, before aborting the movement and settling a hand on Nick’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze and standing up. “We need to make sure though. Coach Nelson said that you were dazed when they pulled the other guys off you.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Nick protests weakly, accepting his father’s hand. “It was one other guy. Not a dogpile. Just some bruises”

“I called Dr. Michaels’ office,” Cisco continues, ignoring Nick’s objections. “They can fit you in this afternoon.” 

Nick frowns. “Do we have to tell mom?” He looks up at his father earnestly. His dad is taking this pretty well. Concerned but calm. 

“I’m not lying to your mother. She deserves to know what happened to you.”

“I know, she just… she didn’t want me playing anyway. She doesn’t get it. Not like you do.”

“That’s some fancy manipulation there, Pancho,” Cisco smiles at him. “Let’s see what the doctor has to say before we start any negotiations.”

Nick resists the urge to sigh. 

* * *

The windows are flung open wide, letting the early autumn air and sunshine fill the house. The scent of dinner wafts through the air. 

Nick eases himself out of the car, his feet dragging as he follows his father to the door. 

Cisco smiles at Nick’s hangdog look. “It’ll be alright, Pancho.” He pats Nick’s shoulder encouragingly before leading him inside. 

“I’ll be lucky if I’m allowed to cross the street by myself after this,” Nick mutters. 

Jillian greets them at the door, Nick remaining hidden behind his dad. 

“I thought you were going to be working late on a case,” Jilian smirks at her husband. “I bet you decided to play hooky so you could watch your son’s football practice.”

“Not exactly.”

“Dad?” Nick looks up imploringly. 

Jillian’s discerning gaze flits between her husband and her youngest child, her eyes narrowing.

“There was a little accident,” Bill begins.

“What kind of accident? Oh Nicky, what happened to your lip. Were you in a fight…”

Nick’s tongue darts out, brushing against his split lip, pulling back at the metallic taste of iron. “I’m fine, mom. The doctor said--”

“Doctor? Bill, what happened? Why didn’t you call me?”

“I only got the wind knocked out of me, but Coach said he had to call you guys, and then dad said I had to go to the doctor, but I’m fine.”

“Pancho,” Bill’s tone is warning. 

“It’s a mild concussion and a hairline rib fracture. It could have happened anywhere!” 

“This happened at football practice?” Jillian folds her arms across her chest. 

Nick’s eyes drop. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“I knew it was a bad idea. I knew something like this was going to happen,” 

“Mom, it’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a fracture, Nicky. Does it hurt?”

“No!” Nick shrugs away from her hands, flinching at the movement and her raised eyebrow of disbelief. “Not really.”

Jillian turns her disapproving gaze on her husband. “I told you not to encourage this. I knew something like this would happen to him.”

“Mark and Brian played all four years.”

“I wasn’t particularly happy with that decision either, but at least I wasn’t afraid they would be crushed if one of the linebackers fell on him.”

“Nick’s quick on his feet. You saw him at the game,” Bill reminds his wife. “They could barely touch him.”

“Well, someone touched him, and now my baby has a broken rib and a concussion.”

“Mom! I’m sixteen.”

“He wouldn’t care so much if you hadn’t pushed so hard. The Stoke football legacy, as if it’s something that matters.”

“It does matter, Mom. It matters to me. Getting to be part of something bigger than me.”

“All the players are bigger than you. I worry about you every time you put on those cleats. I knew it was only a matter of time before you were seriously hurt like this.”

Nick folds his arms, unconsciously mimicking his mother’s posture. “Dad!”

“Jillian…”

“At least it happened so now it can be over.”

“What? Mom, you can’t--”

“Jill, you can’t take this from him.”

“Oh, I’m the bad guy because I don’t want my son getting hurt.”

“I’m fine!” 

“This isn’t a discussion we have to finish tonight,” Bill says diplomatically, ignoring the glares from his wife and his son. “Dr. Michaels said it would be at least three weeks before he would ever consider clearing Nicky to play again.”

“It doesn’t matter what Dr. Michaels says. I don’t care if he clears Nicky to partake in the NFL draft, he’s not playing.”

“That’s not fair. Cisco, you can’t let her--”

“Oh, he can’t let me?”

Nick’s mouth snaps shut. 

Jillian gives a frustrated sigh. “Why don’t you go get cleaned up, Nick. I’ll bring you some dinner.”

Nick opens his mouth to protest. To be stubborn and argue. He knows right now there’s no point. Nothing he can say will change his mom’s mind. 

“Go on, Pancho. We’ll talk about this later, after everyone has had a chance to relax and eat something. No sense arguing with worries high and empty bellies.”

Jillian brushes her fingers through his hair, smoothing it away from his forehead, then raises on her toes and kisses his cheek. “I’m just worried about you.”

Nick gives a small nod before pulling gently away and heading upstairs. His parents begin a furtively whispered conversation before he’s fully out of earshot. He can only hope that Cisco stands his ground and he’s given another chance to present his case when emotions aren’t running strong. 

He dumps his gear into the bedroom that he briefly shared. His brothers so much older than him that he ended up with his own room earlier than his sisters and that was a point of contention in the Stokes household for many years. 

Nick catches a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror after he painfully pulls his shirt over his head. There’s a bruise darkening over his rib, curious fingers poke at the edge and his vision whites out. Clasping the edge of the vanity to keep himself upright, breathing through the pain. 

He vaguely remembers Mark coming home from practice and games with bruises and icing aching muscles, but he never remembers it raising such a big stink. His brother proudly walking around with battle wounds and once a dislocated finger and still picking up little Nicky and tossing him towards the ceiling. His mom had been more upset at the possibility of Nick tumbling.

His brothers still feel like giants. Brian is thirty and still about twice his size. Cisco always going on about his sons being so big and strong. Coach even talked about how his older brothers were built for football. No one ever talked about Nick that way. In fact, he got the distinct impression that Coach was disappointed when he realized that Nick was a Stokes, like his dreams of another winning season were circling the drain without a Stokes hero to save the team.

Nick flexes in the mirror and doesn’t notice much of a difference despite the hours he’s put in at the weight room. 

Even at the doctor’s office today, the nurse took his height and weight, another reminder of how much smaller he is than his brothers and more than half of the team. And the doctor commented that he is still on the small side of his growth curve. He remembers after his yearly check ups how his mom always pushed food on him. Making him special snacks to try to get him to eat more. He doesn’t think that was ever a problem for Mark or Brian. Even his sister Casey is taller than him.

With a sigh, he turns on the shower, stepping under the spray. Letting the water soothe his aching muscles. 

Maybe his mom is right. Maybe it’s too dangerous and he should just quit.

He sputters under the spray. He might not be a big guy, but he’s a Stokes. And they don’t quit. 

* * *

Nick smiles, still half-asleep, as he listens to the mourning doves coo outside his bedroom window, punctuated by the caw of crows. There’s something peaceful about their morning song. His stretch stops short with a jolt when the motion pulls on his ribs. He gasps, laying still, trying to breathe through the pain. 

Sleep through the night was sporadic at best. His parents followed the doctor’s order to the letter and woke him frequently throughout the midnight hours. He must have said that his name was Nicholas Stokes a hundred times. He must have said that he was sixteen years old a hundred times. He must have listed the other six Stokes children a hundred times. He must have named his parents as Jillian and William Stokes a hundred times. 

He told his dad that he was fine and they didn’t need to keep waking him up. He promised his mom that nothing was wrong and that she should try to go to bed, he doesn’t think that she slept between each check in. As quickly as he dropped back off to sleep after answering their questions, he’s not even totally sure that she left his room. 

Once, around four in the morning, while his mom distractedly brushed her hand through his hair he said his dad's name was Roger. Jillian’s hand stilled against his forehead. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to yell for her husband in a panic that they needed to take Nick to the hospital when he caught her wrist. 

“Sorry, mom, that was a bad joke. I’m not confused.”

Jillian gazed down at him. “Nicholas,” she tried to sound like she was angry, but she just sounded worried and he felt bad for teasing her. 

But that must have convinced her that he was okay, because it’s the last time he remembers her waking him up. 

His eyes pop open, the sun streams through his bedroom window. 

He’s late!

Turning toward the clock on his nightstand he gasps. He’s really late. 

He throws back the covers and ignores the painful spasm of pain through his ribs as he sits up. He can’t believe he overslept. He squints against the early morning sunlight, his head aches and he feels a little shaky as he stumbles through his room to the closet, barely paying attention to what he grabs, shrugging into a button-up collared shirt because he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to pull anything over his head. 

A feeling of dread wells up in him as he snatches up his backpack. He fell asleep without ever looking at his homework last night. Mr. Burns might give him an extension but there’s no way Mrs. Gillitz will. He glances at the clock again. He’s already missed the first and second period and by the time he makes it to school, he’s going to miss her class anyway. He doesn’t know if that will make things better or worse.

Good ol’ dependable Nicky Stokes, playing hooky from school because he didn’t finish his homework. He tears out of his bedroom and his feet thunder down the stairs.

“Nicky, what are you doing?” Jillian sits at the kitchen table in her robe. Her hands folded around a cup of coffee.

“I’m late,” his stomach recoils at the smell of coffee and his sudden motion. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.” He promised her that his grades wouldn’t suffer if he was on the football team and he doesn’t want to give her another reason to object if he can somehow convince her to let him play once he’s cleared. 

She stands and catches his shoulder. “Baby, you have a concussion and were up all night. You aren’t going to school today.”

As suddenly as it appeared, the adrenaline left him. 

“I’m not?” He’s suddenly aware of how much his head is pounding and his ribs are aching. “But…”

“Come on, sit down,” she pulls out a chair and he drops into it. “Do you feel like eating anything?”

“Um…” Nick frowns, his stomach warns him to be cautious. “Not really.”

“Some toast? You should have a little something in your stomach.” Jillian moves through the kitchen pulling out a loaf of bread and sticking it in the toaster. 

Nick shrugs. “I guess. I thought you had a case.”

“I had Sharon drop off the briefs. I’ll look them over later.”

“Don’t you go to court on Monday?”

Jillian turns to look at her nearly grown son. “Nick, there’s never been a case that’s more important than you.”

Nick’s mouth falls open, heart racing as he stares at her.

“It doesn’t matter that you’re sixteen, if you need me, I’ll be there for you. I’ve never put work ahead of you.”

His eyes drop to the table. His head is spinning and he feels like he’s breathing harder than during the laps Coach made them run yesterday. Her words burn in his brain.

_I’ve never put work ahead of you… there’s never been a case that’s more important than you…_

His chest aches, and not from the pain in his ribs. The words that refute her claim bubble and sputter in his chest. It’s not true. 

If work didn’t come first then why did she trust a stranger? Why didn’t she stay home with him that night? The only Stokes kid who needed a babysitter. Couldn’t trust him home alone for that long. He was only nine.

The rebuttal scorches as it rises in his throat. He’s tried so many times to tell her. Waiting in the dark for her to come home. Sitting there trying to understand what happened and why. What did he do? He must have been bad. He must have done something.

He should tell her the truth. 

She peeked in when she got home, running a hand through his hair and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, hoping she didn’t feel him tense in the dark as he pretended to be asleep. 

“Nick?” She whispered and he continued faking.

He swallows back the words, like he did then. Burying them deep in his chest. Hiding them in the dark corners of his bedroom that only he can see. 

He could tell her. So many times he wanted to. So many times when he saw the hurt on her face when he recoiled from her touch. When he asked for Cisco instead of her. Let her know it wasn’t her fault that he grew silent. That he refused her peanut butter sandwiches and bedtime stories. 

But it was so long ago. And he’s… he’s accepted it. 

It doesn’t even feel real if he thinks about it too long, like it happened to someone else. Why bring it up now, all these years later?

He could tell her. He could spit the words at her, and hurt her like he hurts, but what good would that do? He’d make her cry. He could never make her cry. 

So, he chokes back his counterargument and lets her make him toast. Consents to her ministrations, tucking him on the couch and bringing him lunch. Allows her to mother him in ways he hasn’t in seven years. 

* * *

Nick squints and rubs his eyes as the letters on the page waver and blur. He pinches the bridge of his nose trying to ward off the headache that’s been his near-constant friend the last two weeks. 

He missed two days of school after his injury. Despite his tenacity, his head throbbed too hard to attempt school on the second day. His mom took one look at him and called the school and Sharon, to his dismay.

“You don’t have to stay with me. I’m not a little kid.” The words caught in his throat. 

Even though he didn’t feel that much better on day three, he wasn’t about to give in and stay home another day. He definitely didn’t need his mom staying home with him a third day. He didn’t want to fall asleep on the couch in the middle of the afternoon with bad soap operas on and have her make him grilled cheese sandwiches, not peanut butter - his dramatic response to the suggestion causing her to pause - for lunch. 

And he really didn’t need to give her further ammunition to use against his returning to the team after his check-up next week. 

He didn’t mention how focusing on the blackboard was a challenge or he found his thoughts wandering in class. More than one teacher asked him to stay after the bell rang and expressed concerns that he was having difficulties with the new material. If he doesn’t finish this homework he’s expecting a few calls home next week, tanking his future football dreams. 

“Nicky, dinner’s ready!” 

He sighs and closes the book. Rubbing his eyes again. Maybe a break and some dinner will help his concentration. 

Dinner is a quiet affair. The clink of silverware and a few words of small talk exchanged between his parents about their day. He’s mostly tried to stay unnoticed over these last two weeks. Unobtrusive and maybe they’ll forget that no one has initiated the promised football follow up discussion. 

Those hopes come crashing down as Jillian sets her fork down. 

“Nick, your father and I have been doing a lot of talking.”

This doesn’t sound good. Nick feels his heart sink. 

“This wasn’t an easy decision for us to make. For either of us. Because we know how much being on the football team meant to you. We know how much it meant to your brothers to be part of something like that, and I don’t want to take those experiences from you, but we can’t let you play football anymore.”

Nick's mouth drops open. He stares at her like she's suddenly speaking a foreign language. "That's... that's not fair. You promised a discussion, not you just telling me what I can and can't do like I'm a little kid."

"It's our responsibility to make sure that you're safe and protect you. And sometimes that means making decisions for you that you don't like."

“Mom,” Nick protests. “I could get hurt anywhere. I could get hurt in the bathtub.”

“That’s not actively going out and asking people twice your size to tackle you.”

Nick’s hackles rise and he glowers at the mention of his size. Always small. Too small to fight back. Always a victim.

"I'm sorry, Nick. I know how much football meant to you."

"Yeah... whatever," Nick turns to face his father feeling betrayed. "I thought you were on my side." 

“Pancho, I’m always on your side,” William says. “We just want what’s best for you.”

Nick snorts. “Punishing me because I’m not the son you wanted.”

“Nicky,” Jillian gasps.

“Because I’m not Brian or Mark, because I’m just me. Little Nicky Stokes, always in their shadow or yours. I can’t ever escape that. I’ll never get to be my own person.” 

“This has nothing to do with your brothers,” Jillian reaches across the table but Nick pulls back.

"Sure... fine. Whatever you say. Oh, wait, that's right. It probably doesn't have anything to do with them. Because they were planned and wanted and I was a mistake." He hears the hurt protests in his mother's voice and the anger building in his father's but he can't stop himself from slinging barbs. “You think you’re some sort of parent of the year. Some heroes with your careers and your big family but I’m always an afterthought.” 

“Nicholas,” William’s voice booms. 

Nick stops, chest heaving. Cisco doesn’t raise his voice often, he doesn’t have to, his presence commanding, but when he does everyone sits up straight and listens. Nick doesn’t know if he can remember a time that ire was aimed in his direction. And he rarely uses Nick’s name, relying almost entirely on the affectionate “Pancho.” In fact, Nick’s not sure he’s ever heard his father pull out his full name. 

“This is not up for debate. And it was not an easy decision but sometimes parents need to make these hard decisions for their children.”

“Judge Stokes, what he says always goes,” Nick mutters. “Doesn’t matter if he’s wrong about everything.”

“Go to your room.”

Nick glares.

“I won’t ask you again.” 

“Been trapped there for years anyway,” Nick spins on his heel, stomping up the stairs. He knows he’s pushing it. Crossing lines that he’s never even come near before. He resists the urge to slam the door, but only barely, throwing himself angrily onto his bed, his temper still flaring.

He stays in his room for the rest of the night, childishly ignoring Cisco’s attempts to talk with him, claiming homework and going to bed early. 

Except he laid there, all night in the dark, wishing he’d kept a tighter rein on his temper and his tongue. Unsure how to apologize for his outburst. And feeling very much like the child he claimed he wasn’t. 

Which is why he’s standing outside of Coach’s office, getting ready to turn in his uniform and quit the team. Better to do it now, than to leave the guys hanging. Not that he’s an essential player. He’d only played a quarter of the season before his injury, and they managed just fine in the second quarter. 

Maybe this will help pave the way for his apology. Prove to his parents that he can abide by their decisions even if he doesn’t agree with them. 

“Stokes,” Coach’s voice booms when he looks up and sees his player hovering just outside the door. “What’s the good word? You coming to let me know you’ve got a clean bill of health?”

"Um…” Nick hedges. His follow up doctor’s appointment isn’t even until next week, but there’s no use delaying the inevitable. Ol’ dependable Nick Stokes shirking his commitments.

“Cause I’ve gotta say, we’re gonna be glad to have you back. You’re my only guy fast enough to get through the Panther’s defenses. We won’t stand a chance at the homecoming game without your speed.”

Nick looks up in surprise. 

Coach chuckles. “Don’t let size fool ya, kid. Sure, you could probably stand to put on a few pounds. It’d make everyone worry about ya a little less when you’re out on the field, but you just gotta be fast enough to stay away from them and you’re golden.”

The words and Coach’s confidence in him rings in his ears all day. Buzzing in his brain and burrowing in deep.

He’s standing in front of his locker suiting up when a hand claps on his shoulder. Nick freezes expecting it to be Coach, catching him in his lie. Or Cisco, yelling and dragging him home in front of the rest of the team, like some kid. 

“Whatcha doing, Stokes?” Riz asks and Nick breathes a sigh of relief.

“Getting changed,” Nick says with a shrug.

Carlos looks around, making sure no one is paying them any attention. He still lowers his voice anyway. “Thought you told me your parents said you weren’t allowed to play anymore? How’d you get them to change their minds?”

Nick studiously ignores the question, pulling his gear from his locker.

“Oh,” Carlos says knowingly. “You didn’t. Wow. Rebel Stokes.” 

“Shut up, Riz.” 

“So what’s the plan to keep them from them?”

“There’s only like six games yet. What they don’t know won’t hurt ‘em.”

“Yeah, but they prosecute criminals and catch them in their lies all the time. And you cave if your dad looks at you.”

“It’ll be fine as long as certain people keep their mouths shut,” Nick shoots Riz warning look.

“Hey, man,” Riz throws up his hands. “I’m not gonna say anything. I ain’t a narc. I don’t want anything to do with this. It’s your ass when they find out.”

Nick glares at his friend and shrugs into his shoulder pads. “They aren’t going to find out.” 

* * *

Nick feels his pulse beating inside his skull. The jarring impact of the tackle bringing him to the ground with a thud that coils around his spine. He can hear the dull roar of the crowd, shocked by the brutal sack. 

There’s going to be a flag on this play for sure. He'd long passed the ball before he was tackled.

His leg aches deep in the bone. Throbbing pain. He's half-convinced that it's broken. He can feel the broken skin on the calf of his other leg where cleats tore into his flesh. And he knows that he was out for a few seconds at least this time, so there’s no way Coach isn’t going to call his parents. Especially after his recent concussion. Then they'll know. Everyone will know. 

He’s dead.

He is going to be in so much trouble.

How did he ever think that he’d get away with this? Why did he try to do something so stupid? Riz is gonna get to say "I told you so."

He just hopes they’ll hold off on the lecture until his head stops pounding. He’ll be grounded for the rest of his life. His parents will never be empty nesters because he’ll still be grounded, sitting at home in his bedroom on Friday nights when he’s forty. 

He’d better open his eyes and face the music because if he lays here much longer they’re gonna get a stretcher out on the field and then that won’t be a trip to the doctor’s office that will be a hospital visit. 

Instead of the blue skies he’s expecting, it’s gray. 

“I didn’t think it was supposed to rain today.” He squints, those clouds look awfully low. 

Tiles. Not clouds. 

Ceiling. Not sky. He feels his pulse beat faster. 

“Nicky?” His mom’s voice is soft next to his ear. 

He turns his head, flinching at the movement causes his stomach to roll. “Mom?” His brow furrows, his head aching in confusion. 

“Hi, Nicky, are you awake?”

Nick frowns, his eyes are open and he’s talking, that usually constitutes awake. “Um… yeah.” His hand braces the side of his head. “What happened?”

“What do you remember?”

Nick’s face twists with guilt. “Football. I’m sorry, mom.”

“I know, baby. You’ve said that. You’ve been in and out for a while. The doctor said you have a type of amnesia.”

 _Amnesia._ Nick frowns. His mind racing “Like… like in a movie? But I can remember you and what happened.” Nick flips through memories, searching for holes, and missing pieces. He knows how to tie his shoes and his sibling and what he had for dinner last night.

"It’s called anterograde amnesia,” Jillian gestures to the whiteboard on the wall where the nurses' names are listed with telephone numbers and the plan for the day. Across the bottom in a messy scrawl is this new term. “You can remember the events leading up to the injury but you’re having trouble holding onto new memories that come after.”

“Is it permanent?” Nick licks his lips. If he can’t make new memories, how will he graduate? How will he go on dates and remember important anniversaries and birthdays? He’ll never be able to be a cop. Or a father. What if he forgets his children? He struggles to sit up. 

“Shhh, Nicky, getting upset isn’t going to help. The doctor doesn’t think it will be permanent. He said you might never fully remember today but he thinks as you heal from this concussion that you’ll be able to make new memories just fine,” Jillian places her hand on his shoulder. 

Nick reluctantly settles back against the pillow. “But I’ve been awake already?”

“Just long enough to see us and apologize,” Jillian brushes an errant hair back from Nick’s forehead. 

“I don’t remember that, but I am sorry, mom,” Nick’s brown eyes don’t quite focus on her. 

“I know. We’ll talk about it later.”

Nick sighs. She’s being gentle with him and he wishes she would just scold him. Yell at him. While she can be a stritc authoritarian, hard-nosed and by the book, Cisco, and his siblings always complained that she was too lenient on him. Her baby. 

The surprise, miracle baby who shook up the Stokes family and Nick isn’t always sure that was in a good way. So many years younger than his siblings, his parents stuck raising another child when they thought they were finally done with diapers and two in the morning feedings. Another round of elementary school, and corny school plays, messy projects hung on the refrigerator and mud tracked into the house.

Extra years where they couldn’t just pick up and go, because who was going to be home with Nicky? 

Hormones and puberty, homework and pimples. Teaching another kid to drive and have him begging to take the family car. 

And he knows she does go easy on him. He tries not to make trouble because he’s desperate to please, but he’s still an energetic kid who’s siblings feel eons older, doing the coolest stuff and he is desperate for their attention and to keep up. Even when she does scold him, she’s quick to forgive and even quicker with a hug.

It’s Cisco’s approval that he craves. And it’s Cisco that he disappoints. And speaking of, his mom said “us” so he was here at one point. Maybe so disillusioned with Nick that he couldn’t stand to stay. 

Came just long enough to make sure that his youngest would live and then so exasperated by Nick’s behavior left him in his mother’s care. But he needs to know, so he takes a deep breath.

“Where’s Cisco?” 

“He’s talking with your doctor.”

“He’s probably going to tell him to pull the plug.”

“Nicky,” Jillian scolds mildly. 

“I don’t blame him.” Nick squeezes his eyes shut, chastising himself. “That was stupid.”

“You’re damn right it was.” 

Nick’s eyes fly open. Cisco stands near the doorway, hands against his hips and larger than life. 

“Bill.”

“Jillian, I’d like to talk with my son.” 

At least he still called Nick his son. 

She stands from the chair at Nick’s bedside, arms crossed and staring down her husband. They have a silent conversation, like Nick has observed them do a thousand times before. “He’s my son too,” she brushes a hand over his head before she walks towards the door. Stopping next to Bill and placing a gentle hand on his chest. “And his memory is still spotty.”

Bill raises an eyebrow at her. “You’re using amnesia as a defense? Never thought I’d see you stoop that low.”

She shrugs and gives him a small smile.

Cisco frowns, his eyes stern, and it makes Nick feel like a little kid sending a shiver down his spine. His father, the ever elusive deliverer of justice, in court and at home. Whose approval is all he ever wanted.

“He remembers enough of what he did.”

Nope, not a little kid. He’s going to be tried in Judge Stokes' courtroom as an adult. 

His mom gives him a soft smile as she exits the room.

Bill walks close to the bed. “What the hell were you thinking, Nicholas?”

“I-- I don’t know,” Nick shakes his head, heart sinking at the use of his full name. He knows that’s not an answer. And not one that Judge Stokes will ever accept. He learned from a young age to take responsibility for his actions. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“I think you were. I think you made a very clear choice. You chose to deliberately disobey us.”

“I went to tell Coach that I couldn’t play. I didn’t want him keeping a spot open for me and leave the team short. I was going to tell him and then I… didn’t.”

“So, you lied to him?”

“Yes, sir,” Nick swallows. “I just didn’t want to disappoint anyone.”

Judge Stokes nods. “Were your mother and I included in the people you didn’t want to disappoint?”

“I thought maybe you wouldn’t find out, at least until the rest of the season was over, and by then it wouldn’t matter anymore. I’m really sorry,” Nick bites his lip, tears filling his eyes and he slams them shut. His father always impressed on him that he was too old to cry. Big boys don’t cry. Take responsibility for your actions, don’t use tears to garner sympathy. He doesn’t know why he’s having such a hard time keeping the tears in check. He would open his mouth to apologize again but he thinks the sob that’s building in his chest might flood over his lips instead. 

“Aw, Pancho,” Bill sighs. “What did you get yourself into?”

Nick looks up in surprise at the nickname. And his eyes widen when they land on Cisco’s face. He has tears in his eyes too. 

He sits on the side of the bed next to Nick’s hip. 

“You scared me, Pancho. I think that was the worst phone call I’ve ever gotten in my life.” He reaches out tentatively, Judge Stokes isn’t a physically demonstrative man, and places a hand on Nick’s shoulder. 

“Really?”

Cisco flinches and swallows. “Pancho, if anything ever happened to you…” he shakes his head as if to clear the thought from his head. The very idea too distressing to be allowed to take root. “I love you, Pancho. More than anything.” 

Nick’s mouth parts, then closes again. His often aloof father. Not cold, but always just out of reach, his approval always unattainable. His thoughts often inaccessible. Nick licks his lips. “I love you too, Cisco.”

Cisco pats Nick’s shoulder. “Why don’t you try to get some rest?”

“You’re-- you’re not mad at me?”

“Ah, Pancho, I am so angry about what you did, disappointed in your choices. Furious, that you lied to your coach and your mother and to me, because I trusted you to make good decisions, but I’m not mad at you.”

“I am sorry,” Nick repeats.

“I know, but we’re not going to talk about this now. Not while your head is still scrambled like an egg, and I’m not sure if you’re going to remember this conversation. But we will be talking about this.” Cisco’s gaze is stern again. 

Nick ducks his head, embarrassed and guilty, and nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Now, go to sleep,” Cisco instructs, moving off the bed to sit in the chair next to it. 

Nick watches his father for a moment before a yawn cracks his jaw, grimacing at the change in pressure in his head before settling back and closing his eyes. His breathing deepens, low and rhythmic and he’s nearly asleep when he feels a kiss brushed against his temple. 

“I don’t tell you enough, but I’m proud of you, Pancho.” 


End file.
